


Consummation

by inthus



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M, slight dub con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 11:29:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18799459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inthus/pseuds/inthus
Summary: He dreamt in flashes, brush strokes of the past, of the present, of frost-smothered lands and seas riotous with flames. Things he could not bear to fathom, things he watched with a numbness creeping ever further into his flesh.And in his bed, he dreamt of other things.





	Consummation

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place slightly before the events of 08x03, so it can be loosely read as a prequel to [Consortium](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18731281)

After an age of traversing through the bleak lands beyond the Wall, making a bed of frozen forest floors or packed ice with only the bodies of his travelling companions to keep warm, his chambers in Winterfell were the pinnacle of luxury. The fine bedding was piled with layers upon layers of silks and furs, and the hearth’s flames were kept high day and night, if he so wished. 

Bran could feel none of it.

Perhaps in another lifetime he would be able to revel in the comforts of Winterfell. But no, there would be no other lifetime for him. Only this blank, gaping existence. 

He dreamt in flashes, brush strokes of the past, of the present. Spools of thread weaving the tapestry of the world, like the small stitches Sansa had embroidered onto the hem of her skirt. He dreamt of frost-smothered lands and seas riotous with flames. Things he could not bear to fathom, things he watched with a numbness creeping ever further into his flesh. 

And in his bed, he dreamt of other things.

When he woke as he slept, the fire in the hearth had dwindled to smoking coals. The Night King was looming over him, a haunting, sombre shadow. Bran felt a vague, far-away sense of alarm as he sat up, only to be pushed back down with a firm insistence. The hand pressing into his shoulder, holding him to the bed, scorched him with cold. 

He was disrobed with steady hands and shuddered, both from the cold that washed over his fire-warmed skin, and the eyes that raked over his form, darkened with desire. From that heady gaze, he felt a stirring between his legs. The Night King’s eyes flickered down, and although the line of his mouth was set firmly in a straight line, Bran had the sense that he was pleased.

The Night King parted his thighs and pressed into him, with fingers as cold as rods of iron. The chill pierced through him, like needles of ice, making him gasp sharply. The intrusion was unceasing and he felt as if he would break from the languid thrusts of those solid, relentless fingers into him.

The Night King stroked his hair gently, cautiously, as if to soothe, as if he were handling some frost-wrought confection. Bran had expected force and brutality, not this tenderness. No, not tenderness. Reverence. 

With measured movements, almost as if he was taking care not to hurt Bran, he extracted his fingers, and replaced them with something considerably larger and thicker. Inch by inch he pressed in, tormentingly slow. It was cold, so cold it bordered on blisteringly hot, and the pain was exquisite. It drew rough breaths and quiet whimpers from him and he felt like he was melting from within. 

Bran closed his eyes and flung an arm over his face. It was better that way. At least he couldn’t see, could only feel the waves of ecstasy which diffused heat into his blood. A hand gripped his wrist, gently pulling his arm away, denying him even that small mercy and he held back a choked sob. 

Bran opened his eyes, and met those of the Night King. The sheer hunger he saw within them _seared_ him, sent a jolt of honeyed heat licking up his spine. 

Hesitantly, Bran brought his hands to rest on the Night King’s shoulders. The body beneath his palms was a frigid, solid mass, and yet more pliable than he had imagined. It was not that of a corpse or an icicle, but the flesh of a man, albeit stiff. Dreamily, he allowed his hands to wander across wide shoulders and arrow-straight clavicles. It was like skimming his fingers over a lake in winter, unyielding and frozen to the touch, aware that at any moment it might crack open and swallow him whole. 

In response to his ministrations, the Night King carefully brought his mouth to Bran’s neck until they almost, but not quite touched. Bran could feel himself shudder, his body beseeching for more, and he tilted his head further back, exposing his throat.

There was only the slightest touch at first, the sweep of cold lips over his pulse. Bran felt the fluttering at the base of his throat quicken. The Night King could feel it too, he knew, and his attentions slowly grew more substantial.

The slide of his mouth against Bran’s neck, the scrape of teeth over tendon and delicate flesh set him alight with torturous need. The Night King left a trail of frosted blue stains across his skin, the hue of dried irises, as he made his way down to Bran’s collarbones and chest. 

The tongue that flitted into the dip between his pectorals was more than he could bear. Bran cried out and arched up off the bed, pressing his chest flush against the Night King’s own. He raked his nails sharply down the Night King’s back. On a man who wasn’t half-forged from ice, it would have drawn blood. 

The Night King narrowed his eyes. His hands flew to Bran’s throat. Not crushing, but merely resting there and rubbing at the bruise he had left at his throat. A reminder. 

Then he tightened his grip on Bran’s hips, and sunk in deep, deeper than he had ever been before, until they were pressed intimately against one another. His thrusts grew rougher, more erratic, and Bran felt the pressure building up, reaching tantamount as a shivery sensation came over him, like wavering on the edge of a tower before a fall. Bran began to quiver, knowing that he was close. 

He was going to be broken and he had never felt so raw. The hand at his throat, and those intent eyes fixated heatedly on him, the feverish ardour of those thrusts, it was too much, it was not enough. This was how he was going to reach his peak; squirming underneath the Night King and entirely at his mercy.

With a shuddery breath, he came, splattering streaks of white across his own stomach. 

The Night King soon followed, spilling his seed inside of him. It both chilled his core and warmed him from within, with a burst of heat that coursed through his body like hot spiced wine on a winter’s night. 

In the brief interlude that followed, the cold lips of the Night King brushed over Bran’s warm ones in the barest promise of a kiss. It stole the very breath from his lungs and filled them instead with frost and ashes. His chest ached. It was the most like Brandon Stark he had felt in a very long time. 

Bran woke much like how night bled into dawn, imperceptibly fading out of sleep and into consciousness. Nothing remained of the Night King’s presence. The fire in the hearth was still alight.

Hands sure and steady, he unlaced his shirt ties. And paused. Under his clothes, his chest was scattered with smudges of red and purple. 

Bran released a tremulous breath as he trailed his fingers across his chest and slipped a hand between his legs, toying with himself. The burning need did not dwindle, did nothing but increase tenfold. Unfulfilled and aggravated, he removed his hand and curled his fingers tightly into the thick furs.

It was a hopeless endeavour. His own caress would never compare to the touch of the Night King.

**Author's Note:**

> In line with the 'Bran becomes the Night Prince' concepts, I really like the idea of this pairing having kind of marriage theme. So this is sort of their wedding night, I suppose (I know, it's so cheesy).


End file.
